To the shock and horror of many a red-blooded North American male, I have elected to downsize the prodigious bewbs that the good Lard decided to bless me with. After many years of hemming and hawing – hoping that the magic Tiny Titty faerie would descend on me in the night and make my oversized chesticles disappear, pretending that I didn’t actually look like a giant walking wall of breasts – I finally decided to ask my physician for a referral to have the bounty harvested. Not only did it turn out that being a dwarf midget with 36GG naughty pillows make me a freak of nature, it also qualified me for a breast reduction paid for by my medical insurance. Apparently, living with a sore back, massive shoulder grooves from bra-straps digging in, chronic skin breakdown and horrible fitting room trauma make you a good candidate to have your jugs downsized. Tucking them into your belt/being able to throw them over your shoulder like a continental soldier? May also qualify you for a breast lift.
For those who are unbelievers, please accept this photo of me and my knockers as reason enough:
That’s right. Those things are twice the size of that poor child’s head.
There are a myriad of more selfish, cosmetic reasons why I finally got off my arse and asked someone to hack the huge hooters of doom to pieces on an operating room table:
– I cannot cannot buy a bra or bathing suit off the rack in a regular store. I am relegated to specialty stores. This is especially true since I’m not a huge person to start with.
– I cannot buy a bra or bathing suit that has support in the right places that fits properly in both cup and band for under $125.
– I look infinitely fatter than someone who has smaller breasts, because my bazongas are a half a foot ahead of me wherever I go.
– People stare. Not in a good way.
– It is not sexy for your husband to have to dive under your armpit to find your nipple during foreplay. Take my word for it.
– When you’re 5 ft 2″, most counters are right. under. your. boobs. They end up sitting on top of the counter during transactions. It looks bizarre.
– Photos of me always look like some oddly dressed, crazed Eastern European bubbie who forgot to put on her babushka before leaving the house. I’m 32, and too young to look like my grandmother.
– I have spent the last year and a half trying to get into running. When you keep giving yourself motorboats when you run, it just adds insult to injury. Not to mention that the generously endowed are lugging a lot of extra poundage in the front, and have a tendency to lean forward, hurting themselves/making it hard to effectively run.
Despite the terror that I feel about the impending surgery and long recovery, and the horrible timing of the whole shebang (we’re moving to Winnipeg 10 days later), I’m looking forward to buying clothing that actually fits.
To being able to get nice lingerie.
To get a bathing suit that wasn’t made for obese Mormon grandmothers.
To possibly wear a strapless dress.
To have breasts of a woman half my age, that don’t look like tube socks with tennis balls stuffed in the ends!
Until then, I have several weeks of recovery from very invasive surgery/general anesthetic to contend with, and then almost year before the end result is settled and normalized.
Should you be one of those people who really wants to know what is involved with a breast reduction/lift, you can check out this very graphic You Tube clip that leaves nothing to imagination:
Yeah. Good times, that.
I mean, who doesn’t want to be turned inside out for shits and giggles on a Thursday morning in August, with a week to recoup before moving across the country with two screaming kids and a stressed out hubby?
Tonight marked the first day of preparation that I had to do on my end to get ready for the surgery. Besides abstaining from all alcohol, OTC meds and vitamins, I have to scrub myself with Hibitane antibacterial solution for 4 days prior.
Nothing says “yummy mummy” like the enticing smell of hospital grade disinfectant, yo.
Bolstering my courage is a number of women I know, who have had this operation already. They all state unequivocally and emphatically that this surgery was “the best thing I’d ever done for myself” and “life changing.”
I’m hoping that they’re right.